


red

by jlhd



Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: Fluffy Angst, angsty fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-12
Updated: 2018-11-12
Packaged: 2019-08-22 14:18:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16599506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jlhd/pseuds/jlhd
Summary: special thanks to awakeanddreaming, the writer's guild, and the gay bbqyell at me on tumblr @janizms





	red

\-----  

You'd always wanted a family.    
  
You wanted the soft pitter patter of feet against the hardwood floors.  The giggles of mischief filling the halls.  You wanted the tantrums over denied sweet treats.  You wanted a family of your own.    
  
With her.    
  
But not like this.    
  
The speedometer climbs as you race towards the hospital, one hand, knuckle white against the steering wheel, the other clutching hers, blood filling the crevices where your fingers intertwine.    
  
Her screams and sobs fill your ears, the squeaking sounds of leather as she writhes against the red interior.  Red.  Like the color oozing from between her thighs.    
  
“It'll be okay, baby. I promise, we're almost there,” your voice crackles out.    
  
_It has to be,_ you think.    
  
You'd wanted all of this.    
  
But not like this.    
  
Your tires screech into the parking lot, the blaring of your horn and your cries for help cutting through the cold night hair.    
  
“Please, anybody! My wife! Please help us!”    
  
You’re helpless as you’re urged to step aside, allowing the doctors and nurses to crowd around her.  She screams your name, “I can’t do this” she pleads.  You do everything you can to reach for her one last time, to feel her skin against yours before they wheel her away.  Your body desperately envelops hers, halting the gurney just before the double doors.  Despite your pleading they won't let you go with her.  You tell her it will be okay, your fingers brushing through her hair, swiping away at the tears along her cheeks, her sweat sticking to your skin, her saliva clinking to your lips, her body shaking below you.    
  
_I can't do this._  
_I know you can._  
  
_(I'm not ready to be a mother.)_  
_(You will be.)_  
  
An arm shoves you aside as her body slips from your fingers, her screams for you fading away.  Your hands stained red, the lingering feeling of her skin against yours and the last look of fear in her eyes.    
  
You wanted a family.    
  
With her.    
  
And now you might not have either.  

\-----  

Massive blood loss is all you hear before everything fades out.  The doctor keeps talking, but you don’t hear any of it.  All you know is she’s alive, but barely.  There’s a ringing in your ears, the sound of your name, begging for you in desperation to come with her.    
  
You couldn’t.    
  
They didn’t let you.    
  
But you hadn’t tried hard enough to stay.    
  
You didn’t fight hard enough to be with your family.    
  
A family you so desperately wanted.  

\-----  

You didn’t realize a box so small could hold everything in the world that mattered; that needles and tubes so tiny could connect to every organ of your daughter’s, like an artificial womb, providing her body with nutrients and her underdeveloped lungs with support.  You lean your forehead against the box, your breath fogging the glass, droplets of your tears shining against the linoleum floor below you.    
  
You hope your daughter knows you’re there.    
  
Eventually, they place your daughter on your chest, her soft, paper thin skin against yours.  They say it'll help her heart; for her to feel how hers should be working.  You used to do this with your wife, you think, before she ever was your wife.  Through all the competitions in crowded arenas, through all your highs and lows, you held her close, your hearts beating as one.  It calmed her down, soothed her, made her stronger.  You hope your daughter is just like her mother, hope her heart is even stronger.    
  
You’d always wondered if your daughter would look like your wife, with the same gorgeous green eyes.  You wonder if she’ll have the same booming laughter, the same pouty face that makes you melt.  But she hasn’t opened her eyes yet, she can’t even breathe on her own.  It’s some sick joke, you think, how laying there in the incubator, with the tubes snaking in and out of her body, that she does look like your wife, hooked up to the same machines.    
  
You hope your wife will wake up soon.    
  
Your daughter doesn’t have a name yet.  

\-----  

You fall asleep in a chair, your head resting against your wife’s hip, your hand clutching hers.  There’s a tube snaking down her throat and the steady beeping of her heart.  Everyone looks at you with such pity or concern.  You’ve become That Guy.  The guy with the kid born too soon and the wife who’s too weak to wake up.  Scott Moir, the guy who was so finished with ice dancing because he wanted to settle down and start a family.    
  
You need your wife to wake up soon.    
  
You can’t do this alone.  

\-----  

Your brothers drag you out of the hospital, as you finally admit your desperate need for a shower, clothes reeking of the stress you’ve been feeling for the past 3 days and that indescribable hospital smell that you hate so much.  Your mother and her sister stay behind, watching over your daughter and your wife, promising that they won’t leave her side.  They basically kick you out of their respective rooms to get you to leave.    
  
“They’ll be fine, Scott.”    
  
That’s the last thing you told your wife.    
  
The house is quiet as the door creaks open, a toppled chair greeting you as you enter.  Your brother stays behind you in the doorway, staring between the scene before you and your tired eyes.  He’s got the same look of pity you should be used to seeing now.  There are droplets of blood leading up to the stairs that you had forgotten about, in your desperation to carry your wife out of the house, and a small pool of now dried blood against the sheets.    
  
You hear your brother moving downstairs, placing items in their rightful place, the sound of the tap running, floorboards creaking as he gets ready to mop up the mess.    
  
You’re not sure how long you stand in your bedroom.    
  
Staring.    
  
You were supposed to come home together, with smiles too wide and a sleepy baby in her arms.  You were supposed to fall asleep to the soft whimpers of your baby resting in the room over, not from your wife’s cardiac monitor.  You were supposed to be sleep deprived from waking up in the middle of the night to hungry wails, watching with a sleepy grin on your face as your wife fed your child, not from wondering if your wife would ever actually wake up.  You were supposed to laugh in the shower together as she washed vomit and spit-up from her hair.  Instead you stand, alone, the scalding water turning your skin red as your sobs echo against the bathroom tiles, your body curling slowly to the floor.  

\-----  

On the fifth day you wake up to soft fingers running through your hair, the bones in your back popping as you angle upwards.    
  
Your wife’s eyes are open.    
  
Your wife is awake.    
  
Something between a laugh and sob rips from your lungs as you get up, your hands grasping at her cheeks, tearfully nuzzling against her hairline.  You’re yelling for the nurses to remove the tube from her throat.  You need to kiss her properly.  You thought you’d never get the chance again.    
  
She’s blinking slowly up at you, her hands rubbing small circles against your arms.    
  
Your wife is awake.    
  
“Hey, Tess.”    
  
She asks about your daughter and you fill her in on every detail.  She’s 3.9 lbs and a fighter, “just like her mama,” you say.  You tell her about the time you’ve spent together, about all the silly little conversations you’ve had while your daughter has slept against your chest.  Your wife’s eyes are rimmed red and filling with tears as she chuckles beside you.  “You’re a dad,” she whispers.    
  
You realize she’s the first to tell you that.  

\-----  

You watch your wife seated in front of the incubator, the nurse popping the lid open as your wife’s hand cautiously inches towards your daughter, a tiny hand wrapping around the tip of your wife’s finger.  You lean against her, balancing on the chair's armrest and rubbing small circles against her back, nose buried in her hair as her body shakes, a mix of joyful and worried tears rolling down her cheeks.    
  
“Hi baby. Mama’s here now. Mama’s here now, beautiful girl.”    
  
You decide to name her Scarlet, because _“her name begins with an S and ends in a T, and she’s everything we share in between”_ and your wife has always been a cheesy love-dork like that.    
  
Scarlet.    
  
Red.    
  
Red like the dress she wore during your career high, when you thought that was the happiest you’d ever be.  Red like the Canadian flag.  Red like the lipstick she wore on your wedding day, leaving imprints all over your face, overwriting all the moments you thought would be the best in your life.  No, this moment top all else.  Red like the blood pumping through your veins from a heart that beats only for her and your daughter, with every fibre of your being.    
  
She’s more visible now in the incubator, most of the tubes done away with as her body becomes stronger, small mittens cover her hands to prevent her from fidgeting with the remaining tube inserted through her tiny nose.  She recognizes your voice and gives you a gummy grin when she senses you’re close, eyes still closed.    
  
They still place her against your skin when you visit, a connection you two now share.  But your heart stops as she’s finally placed against your wife’s chest, a small squeak coming from your daughter as she’s able to nestle skin to skin against her mother for the first time.  Tessa looks up at you then, her signature laugh-cry filling the room and you can’t help but laugh-cry alongside with her, taking her hand in yours, gazing at your daughter in her arms.    
  
Tessa nods attentively as the nurse instructs her how to get your daughter to properly latch onto her.  You watch in awe as Scarlet begins to suckle at your wife’s breast easily.  “Does it hurt?”  You ask, feeling another wave of emotion come over you.  This woman, the love of your life, so incredible and strong, who literally fought for her life to give everything in her body for her daughter.  Your daughter.  A smile spreads across your wife’s face as she gazes open your baby’s face once more before leaning her head back against the rocker to watch you, “Not at all, darling. It’s perfect. She’s perfect.”    
  
\-----  

They discharge both of your girls a couple of weeks later.  Tessa now strong enough to walk without assistance and Scarlet able to breath on her own, gurgling softly in your wife’s arms now, tiny tubes discarded and an incubator nowhere in sight.  The nurses gift you a basket of miniscule hats and diapers, snapping a polaroid of the three of you, hanging the photo on the NICU corkboard in the hallway alongside all the other preemies and their smiling parents who’d come before.    
  
You watch them in the back from the rear view mirror, your wife cooing over Scarlet, your daughter milk drunk in her carseat, her mittens rubbing at her face, with sleepy green eyes with specks of hazel.  You keep your eyes glued to the road as much as you can and if you happen to get a few honks from other drivers for pausing longer than necessary at stop signs, well, they can go fuck themselves.  You’re carrying precious cargo.    
  
You push the door open with a little too much enthusiasm, the knob smacking against the brick.  This earns you a glare from your wife and a whine from your daughter. _Better get used to that,_ you think.  You follow behind as your wife walks through your home, muttering things to Scarlet as she gives her a mini tour, climbing the stairs carefully and into the nursery.    
  
She’s asleep again by the time your wife lays her down.  You both hover over the crib watching her, the morning light creeping through the windows, illuminating everything you hold dear.    
  
You’d always wanted a family.    
  
And now you have it.    
  
With her.    
  
With both of them.  

\-----   

**Author's Note:**

> special thanks to awakeanddreaming, the writer's guild, and the gay bbq  
> yell at me on tumblr @janizms


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